


Amongst us not one soul, either

by nikkitikkitavi



Category: GreedFall (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Graphic Description, Like a lot of torture. I'm serious, This is rated for torture not for sex ):, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:20:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26369359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikkitikkitavi/pseuds/nikkitikkitavi
Summary: They'd come at night, while she was asleep.Perhaps she'd been a fool, letting her guard down enough for them to get the drop on her, but she'd expected to be safe in the city, in her townhouse, with a locked door between her and any ruffians, and a barred and guarded gate against any wild beasts.OR: Did you really think you could blackmail the Mother Cardinal without any consequences?
Relationships: Constantin d'Orsay/De Sardet
Kudos: 3





	Amongst us not one soul, either

**Author's Note:**

> Bro I'm serious about the torture. And the character death.
> 
> The title is from Angela Carter's "The Tiger Bride." The quote in full: If I could see not one single soul in that wilderness of desolation all around me, then the six of us - mounts and riders, both - could boast amongst us not one soul either, since all the best religions in the world state categorically that not beasts nor women were equipped with the flimsy, insubstantial things when the good Lord opened the gates of Eden and let Eve and her familiar tumble out.

They'd come at night, while she was asleep. 

Perhaps she'd been a fool, letting her guard down enough for them to get the drop on her, but she'd expected to be safe in the city, in her townhouse, with a locked door between her and any ruffians, and a barred and guarded gate against any wild beasts. 

More fool, she; but then again, none of her friends had ever raised any concerns. They'd trusted her judgment. 

_Lesson learned,_ she thought, grimly. _Any time we're sleeping outside of New Sérène, we'll be sharing guard duties._

 _Maybe even_ in _New Sérène, depending..._

Depending on Constantin, and whatever he was doing, and whatever she could do to convince him to stop. Though now was certainly not the time to be thinking of that.

She'd woken up in the dark of her San Matheus bedroom with a crowd of soldiers around her, moonlight shining off of the bright metal of their armour. 

They wore the helms of Thélème, and the capes, but nothing over their faces; they weren't afraid of her identifying them. 

Despite all she'd done in her time on Teer Fradee, people rarely seemed impressed. So far she had a good record making them regret that, but despite everything, and in spite of Kurt's best efforts, she wasn't a born and bred soldier, and she couldn't go from a dead sleep to a deadly display of magic, especially without the help of her focusing ring.

( _Something else that would change, in the future. The ring would stay on while she slept and bathed, and her sword would always be within reach, rather than tucked away in its scabbard across the room._ )

She managed a quick, frantic burst of magic before they piled on, hard and heavy enough that below her wheezing and their yelling, she could hear a crack and feel the alarming shift that meant the bed frame broke beneath the weight.

Once they had her trussed up to their liking - well enough that she couldn't speak, move her arms, or make a break for it, but still able to shuffle forward - she got a nasty grin from a soldier before he pulled a thickly-woven cloth over her head and began prodding her to wherever they were going. 

...

She's had enough broken ribs - unfortunately - in her time to know that one of those tin bastards gave her a few, but other than that she feels fine.

Well, simmering with rage and indignity, but physically, she's been worse. 

It's a fairly short trip to wherever they're going, but she can hear enough uncertain shuffling - other than her own - that she's pretty sure Petrus and Vasco are also on this unauthorized field trip, so that's a relief. Not for the first time, she's grateful for her decision to bar Aphra and Siora from any trips into San Matheus. Who knows what these religious zealots would have done to a citizen of the Bridge Alliance or an Islander if they'd been found helpless and asleep in their beds. 

It was too bad Kurt hadn't come though - he probably would have woken up at the first sign of trouble and they'd all be wrapping this issue up right now. 

She’s disoriented and having a hard time tracking their progress, but she can tell they’ve entered the town square when their steps stop echoing within the confines of closely-fitted homes and buildings.

There's the creak of a door opening, and she's shoved into a room with a wooden floor. She's pushed up a staircase - no warning from the soldiers, of course, so she trips, and she can't catch herself with her arms behind her back, so she cracks her face and feels blood start a slow crawl down her chin after her lip splits - and then jerked to a stop on the second floor.

She can hear the heavy tread of soldiers in armor, and then a soft bulk is shoved against her right arm - she flinches and starts to shove back until she realizes it must be Vasco or Petrus, that they've reached their destination and have been lined up. 

Undoubtedly these guys were hoping for a dramatic reveal when they pull the sacks off their captives heads, but she's expecting it and manages only a small flinch at the sudden light.

She whips her head to the right and meets Petrus' eyes, looking fairly composed for a man pulled out of bed in the middle of the night by hostile forces. 

He frowns when he notices her split lip, and frowns harder when his gaze moves behind her to the room at large.

She takes one quick second to crane forward past Petrus to check on Vasco - yup, alive; yup, scowl in place; yup, he _does_ wear a nightshirt, Aphra will be so disappointed - before she takes her own look around. 

_Well, well, well. Son of a bitch._ It's the headquarters of the Ordo Luminis. Shame on her for not setting the place on fire when she had a chance. 

There's a rustle of movement behind her, hands and pressure against the back of her head and she twitches away almost before they’ve finished cutting away her gag. She spits it out and ignores the strained corners of her mouth to start giving these people a piece of her mind.

The leader is pretty obvious, a man in front, no armor, just a very fine, expensive-looking doublet with gold embroidery along the sleeves. She's never seen him before, but that doesn't exactly mean much; she knows the Mother Cardinal and a few of the higher ups (before she killed them), and could recognize maybe a handful of San Matheus nobility by sight. 

Right now, she's pissed enough that she'd yell at Mother Cardinal if she was here. "How _dare_ you?" she demands. "Normally, this is where I'd ask if you know who I am, but you took me from my bed, so obviously you _know_ that I am the legate from New Sérène and you _know_ that in doing so you have declared war on the Congregation of Merchants! 

"So again, I ask, _how dare you?_ Who are who and what hole did you crawl out of to think that you have the authority to pit your nation against mine?"

There's a light rustle of movement from Petrus that makes her think, _Someone who_ does _have the authority, or at least Petrus thinks it's a possibility that whoever-he-is has been promoted to that authority shit shit this might be_ bad -

And then the man, whose thin lips spread wider and wider with her every word, breaks into a cold chortle. 

"Oh well _said_. I've heard tales of the infamous silvery-tongued Justine de Sardet, but I never thought I'd have the pleasure of hearing it in person!"

Silvery-tongued, he calls her, but his own voice is cold and dead, like stone. Despite herself, it makes her want to shiver, sends an electric frisson of fear zinging up her spine. 

He takes a measured step forward, slow and careful, and then surprises her with how fast he moves, arm darting forward to knot in her loose hair and yank her head back, bending her far enough quickly enough that by the time she's ready to fight back, she's balanced on his grip and cannot struggle without tearing out her hair or falling to the ground.

She can hear the shuffling, chain-clanking sounds of her men putting up a struggle, and she risks taking her eyes off of this man for a moment to try and catch a glimpse of them from the corners. It's a bad angle, and all she can catch is feet and then thighs as they're presumably shoved to their knees, before whoever-he-is digs his nails into her scalp and her eyes return to his.

"Pay attention when I'm speaking, profligate whore." Again, shuffling and clanking noises as Vasco - and perhaps Petrus, though normally he would be above such base insults - register their displeasure. 

"Of course I know who _you_ are. I doubt anyone is unfamiliar with the silver-tongued, moss-faced bitch with delusions of being the _Great Unifier_ of this pagan island!

"Oh! But pardon me, I don't want you to think I'm so rude as to keep my guests out in the hall!" Those cold eyes of his gleam as he sweeps out an arm and flourishes his cape. "Please, join me in my humble office."

Two of the soldiers muscle the bookcase behind him out of the way, revealing the hidden door to the torture chamber she'd found on her previous visit. 

There's a pause as he presumably waits for the sinister anticipation of a hidden door to seep into her psyche. Apparently no one here realizes she's seen it, though she distinctly remembers leaving evidence of her passage - dead soldiers, looted valuables, not actually moving the bookcase back after she'd discovered the chamber. 

"I've already seen the secret torture room," she finally says, when it becomes obvious that he needs some kind of reaction.

There's a light creak and clatter as some of the soldiers shift in surprise. The man's brows drop down in some unpleasant emotion. "Oh?" he asks.

"I've been here before, months ago. So if you're trying to scare me - hnck!" 

The soldiers are well trained in brutality. He flicks his hand towards her, like he's trying to shake off a beggar, and not a moment later she's being backhanded by a gauntlet.

She's been hurt before, certainly, and quite badly at times. That was always in battle, though, with adrenaline blazing through her veins and the knowledge that soon enough she'd either be tossing back a potion or getting healed by Siora.

This is nothing like that. She doesn't even see it coming, can't conceptualize the fact that an allied nation can know who she is - who she is _related to_ , what ranks and powers she has on her own merits - and still proudly and without provocation break open her face on an armored glove.

It feels like she's landed face-first on shrapnel. Her cheekbone is radiating pain outward, her _eye_ \- her eye! - feels like it's exploded, like it's going to burst, and she almost wants it to if that will relieve the pressure, she can feel little white-hot fiery needle pricks running through it and something wet - oh please tears, please let it just be tears - running down her cheek, and her split lip is in agony, like one of the greaves of the glove caught it and _tore_ , and after a million years trapped alone in the deadened wind-rush sound of her pain, she can hear everything in the room again, she can hear herself, and she is _screaming -_

The pain doesn't leave, exactly, but eventually her throat goes raw, and when she can't scream anymore, she can concentrate on the other sounds happening around her. There was, she thinks, a lot of noise for a while there, but she was preoccupied.

It's mostly quiet now, just the wheezing pant that she can manage and an awful whimpering sound from behind Petrus.

She leans forward a little on her knees, turns her head so that she can look properly out of the eye that isn't rapidly swelling shut, and sees what they've done to Vasco.

There's a hand in her hair again, pulling her upright this time. "Get the prisoners locked up for the night," he says. "I hope we didn't disturb the neighbors; goodness knows this room isn't exactly soundproof."

They're dragged into the torture chamber, wrists and ankles cuffed in heavy iron chains bolted to the walls. The soldiers linger, fiddling with the chains. She's so busy staring at Vasco that it doesn't register as bad news until the chains tighten, losing slack until they're forced up onto their toes, no way to stand flat to the stone floor.

On their way out, the last guard grabs for the torch, but that bastard, in the doorway, shakes his head. "Leave it. I want her to see what I've done to them. Goodnight, pagans, I'll be back tomorrow. Try and get a good night's sleep, we'll be getting to work very soon.

"Mother Cardinal sends her regards."

With that, he allows the soldier to close the door. She can hear a key turning in the lock, and then the scrap as the bookcase is maneuvered back into place. 

"Petrus," she whispers, her voice hoarse and cracked. Even that one word makes her wince from the strain on her face, which has begun stiffening up.

He at least looks fine. Filthy, in shock and outraged, but she can't see any blood.

They'd hung Vasco up on his own wall, across from her and Petrus. Front row seating to the suffering of their friend. 

He's sagging in his chains now, and the noises have stopped - she can see his chest moving rapidly, but he is unconscious for now. 

"Who?" she manages. "You know him?"

She pulls her gaze away from Vasco's poor ruined face to look at Petrus. He's staring at the floor, but after a moment he meets her eyes, gives a brief nod and then grimaces behind the gag, shrugging as best he can. 

He tries to say something but gives up after a moment - they are effective at what they do, these savages, and the gag stays fast, tight to the corners of his mouth. 

Instead he catches her eye, pointedly closes his own for a long moment before meeting hers again. _Get some sleep, we'll need it._

 _And,_ she thinks, _Nothing else to do. No way out of here, for now._

She hums a brief agreement until the buzz irritates her throat and starts a coughing fit that has Petrus staring at her in alarm - and almost worse, no effect on Vasco.

Neither of them sleep deeply, too riddled with anxiety and pain, unable to relax with the strain of the position, but she does manage to doze for stretches of time.

...

A foot cramp jolts her back to full consciousness, an awful rolling cramp that shivers through the arch of her foot, the muscle pulled drum-tight.

She tries to put her weight on the other foot, relieve the cramping by flexing, but all it does is send a warning tremor through the other foot, poised as it is holding all her weight.

Instead she suffers through the tremors and pain, writhing with her face in a grimace, unable to stop a low groan.

When it's over, she hangs as limp as possible, panting and praying any time she moves involuntarily and feels a quiver of foreboding.

Petrus is watching her warily, no doubt hoping to avoid the same. 

Vasco is - awake. Or at least, there's movement and noise, and the glimmer of eyes visible through the swelling and dried blood in the guttering torchlight.

"Vasco," she whispers, hoarse. She tries to clear her throat, but between the screaming, hours without water, and the lingering smoke and haze from the torch, it doesn't do much more than let her know that her face has stiffened into almost immobility overnight. "I'm going to get you out of here, okay? Just...hold on, soon we'll be -"

There's a faint thump outside, presumably as the concealing bookshelf is moved, and then the scrape of the wooden door against the stone floor.

She feels a leap of anticipatory hope - Kurt, sword bloodied, charging in like an avenging angel! - that's immediately stomped down. 

Two armored soldiers precede the bastard from last night, one replacing the guttering torch with a fresh one while the other checks the fit of their manacles.

Briefly she considers spitting in his face, but the pain of her face as the muscles thaw and ache make her reconsider. Best to play docile for now. 

"I trust my guests all had a good night's sleep and are ready to speak to me? Hmm?"

Duties complete, the soldiers move to guard the doorway, leaving the bastard to stand in the center of the room. "Do you have anything helpful to say, whore, or do you need to contemplate your sins for another night?"

Quickly, she weighs her options. Telling this man to fuck himself would be much more satisfying, true, but the consequences will also be harsher. On the other hand, they're not expected back at New Sérène until tomorrow at the earliest, and her tendency to wander and assist strangers as she travels means that her companions won't even begin to worry for two days, plus the travel time of _getting_ here, and who knows if they'll even be let in the city. This is a dangerous edge they walk.

"What shall we talk about?" she rasps. "We could compare and contrast cultural definitions of hospitality? It appears the Congregation and Thélème differ quite wildly."

Those dead eyes stare at her for a moment before he affects a smile, tapping one long finger to his top lip in contemplation. "Funny, funny," he muses, "They told me about your charming silver tongue, but I've never heard a hint about how _funny_ you are, whore!

"Perhaps, after I get what I want from you, we will do something about that tongue." 

Quick as a cat, he turns to Petrus, nodding at one of the soldiers. "Are we feeling a little more cooperative, _Father_ Petrus?"

The guard pulls a dagger from his leg and slips it none-too-carefully between the gag and Petrus' face, angling it to saw at the fabric. Petrus is frozen, watching the point of the dagger as it jumps towards his eye on every upwards motion until finally the man is done and the gag falls to the filthy floor.

"Now, _Father_ ," the bastard begins again, "Perhaps your good night's rest jogged something loose in your memory. 

"If you'll recall, I'm interested in your fearless leader's cousin. _Constantin._ Tell me about him. I've heard he was afflicted with the malichor, though it seems to have _miraculously_ cleared up. However did that happen?"

Petrus' eyes dart over to hers for a long moment, then back to the bastard's face. "I'm afraid I don’t know," he says in measured, serious tones. 

"Hmm," the bastard says, again. He turns from Petrus back to her, an almost quizzical look on his face, eyebrow raised into the slightest point. "Well, I suppose we’ll see if you’ve changed your mind tomorrow."

It's foolish to engage with him, but she can't stop herself from fishing for information. "It is no secret that we came here - when we don't return, San Matheus will be the first stop," she says, a question in her voice.

"Yes, but you spoke with the Mother Cardinal and left yesterday. You sold two longswords and a dagger, and purchased eight pieces of refined iron ore from the merchant in the town square. Several townspeople saw you. On your way out of town, a young woman stopped you in the wheat fields and asked if you'd seen her brother, and of course, you offered to help find him. She hasn't heard from you since, but your reputation precedes you, so she holds out hope that you'll find her brother."

A grin creeps across his cruel lips when she can only stare. 

"Dear, stupid legate." He steps forward and strokes one cold, bony finger down her bruised and aching cheek, harsh pressure that makes her flinch away. She tries to bite him but his hand is already out of reach.

"Ah ah! Did you think I was some sort of amateur? You have been criss-crossing this heathen land for eighteen months, causing problems and making whatever misguided decisions your sin-soaked brain can conjure up; it doesn't exactly take a stroke of divine intervention to know what will get your little band of disciples out of here and off chasing rumors and smoke for weeks."

She doesn't know what to do. For the first time, she really starts to think they're in trouble; actual real, _bad trouble._ Her friends will come, they'll investigate, but if the bastard is telling the truth...They could be out on a wild goose chase for _weeks_. 

How long before they give up, cut their losses, head back to their own little factions and forget all about three people they used to call friends? _Kurt will take the longest_ , she thinks, _but Siora has her sister and village to think about, Aphra has her research to get back to_. 

They need to get out of here. To do that, they need to turn a guard, get something to pick the locks on their manacles - they need time alone, to figure out a plan. No cooperation, that just means they're worthless and can be killed.

He's watching her, that cold little smile still on his face, eyes avid and bright, like he was following the flicker of her thoughts and enjoyed it.

"Yes?" he prompts.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says, getting back to the original point and hoping he'll just slap her around before he gets bored and leaves them alone. "I am still working to find a cure for the malichor. A native healer is attending Constantin, but he is still ill. Your sources are misinformed."

"Interesting. Oh, not what you've said: I already know about your pagan healer, and as I said earlier, we know that Constantin has been cured. Rather, it's interesting that you think you can successfully lie to me. And why? Do you think there will be no consequences? Do you think killing you is the worst thing I can do to you? By the time I'm done with you, whore, you will be glad to go to the flames."

She doesn't want to give him the satisfaction, she _doesn't,_ but her body reacts, eyes drawn wide and tongue and throat drying up. _The flames_. It's been impossible to forget her first visit to San Matheus, much as she's tried. 

One last smirk, his eyes eating up her fear, before he turns to leave. Her muscles, bunched up tight in strained tension, begin to release and she sags slightly in her chains. 

"What time is it, is she at breakfast yet?" he asks the guards. 

The guard murmurs, but the space is small enough that she can still hear. Barely 9 o'clock. The day in this cell stretches ahead of her, hopeless.

"Well then, I'd best be on my way, it doesn't do to be late! Oh!" He pauses to point back at Vasco, "Best get rid of his gag, too. No need to be gentle about it."

A guard opens the door for him, before turning back to Vasco. The difference between gentle and ungentle is negligible with the trauma already affecting his face, and the sounds he makes stay with her.

When the guards leave,, they don’t replace the torch, and it continues the slow gutter towards extinguishing itself.

She stares at the door for a moment, trying to force her thoughts into something useful and orderly, instead of being stuck in panic.

And she does have questions. "Who - who is he? You know him?"

Petrus meets her eyes when she looks at him. "His name is Matthieu Hopkins. We were not friends, but we had acquaintances in common, enough that we attended the same parties. I did not know he was even on Teer Fradee, and last I was aware, he was not far enough in the ranks to have this kind of authority. It is a mystery to me.”

She nods, understanding. Teer Fradee has a way of shaking up assumptions and hierarchies - it is a land of opportunity, after all.

Petrus clenches his jaw after a moment, stares at a point to the left of her face before he forces himself to meet her eyes again. "I am sorry, Justine. I underestimated how the Mother Cardinal would react to blackmail. This is my fault."

She starts to shake her head but stops quickly when it jars her face unpleasantly. "No," she says instead, "I agreed. Knew the risks. But Constantin?" She won't be able to say much more, her face is still sore, and her throat feels raw.

He sighs, and she gets the feeling he disagrees about the fault, but decides to refrain from arguing. Good; she's not really in the mood. "That part troubles me, too. How do they know about - Constantin. There may be a spy in the governor's palace." He thinks for a moment, then sighs again. "Perhaps yet another area where the Coin Guard has betrayed us."

She hopes not. But other than a few loyal Guard, the rest have been entirely too eager to betray their oath for the chance of money and power. 

Still. "Doesn't matter," she says.

"Yes, you're right. We can worry about the who if - _when_ \- we get out of here. For now...Perhaps we should try to rest. As best we can."

It must still be morning, but being unconscious is tempting. Before she can rest though, Vasco must be attended to.

She takes a moment to brace herself, then looks at him. “Vasco,” she says, and then stops. She wants to apologize. She wants to try for a joke. Neither is a helpful option. “Is the pain terrible?”

He manages a low groaning sound through the ruin of his face, and something that may be a shrug before he nods once, slowly. 

There’s a pressure at her throat and the back of her eyes, but she can’t cry right now. “Father Petrus is usually right, maybe we can all try for a little mid-morning nap - what luxury, huh? Do you think you can sleep?”

A pause, then what could be a slow nod before his head rests against his chest. Maybe more of a slide into unconsciousness, but it’s better than suffering through the pain.

Likewise, the inside of her eyelids is better than the cold stone floor, or waiting for the door to open again, so she closes her eyes. 

...

It’s impossible to tell how much time has passed before they’re woken up. No windows, no indication of the passing of time, not even her own body, which feels so uniformly awful that she can’t rely on it to tell her if it’s been ten minutes or ten hours. 

Probably closer to the former, if she were to guess. In the brief moment before the door is closed again, the quality of the light she sees in the corridor makes her think it’s still early in the day.

No Hopkins, which she counts as a blessing. It’s just two guards, one changing out the torch by the door, the other taking a leisurely stroll around the room. 

“Good?” the one by the door asks.

In answer, the other raises a casual arm to backhand Petrus. They’re silent for a moment while he shouts, then one moves towards her.

“Anything you’d like Inquisitor Hopkins to know?” he asks. Behind him, the other prods carelessly at Petrus’ bruised face.

She hesitates for a moment. “No.”

The one near her nods. Reaches above her head to grab her left index finger. Her body tenses, automatically, in the moment before he bends it back in one quick, decisive move, until it breaks. 

She opens her mouth to scream, and instead lets out a short, cut-off sound that garbles into a moan. 

By the time she’s aware of her surroundings again, the guards have left. And then there were three.

...

They don’t speak, although perhaps they should try to plan. But she’s in pain, in shock, feeling hopeless and terrified. How long has it been? Has it even been twenty-four hours? Has anyone even started to wonder?

It’s impossible to tell. 

The pain warps her sense of time, she fades in and out, in and out. She stares at the torch, flickering in and out, in and out.

...

There are guards again. She flickers in and he’s standing right in front of her, smiling. She can’t tell if it’s the same guard, they all look the same, big and brutal and unpleasant.

“Tell me about Constantin d’Orsay,” he says. 

“I have...nothing to say,” she says. Hesitant. It sounds like, _Convince me_.

He’s still smiling. He raises a hand, and taps, oh-so-gently, at her broken finger. She can feel the pain of each touch like the throb of a heartbeat. _Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump_. 

“Nothing?”

She can’t look away from his face. She can hear Petrus in the background, groaning as he's hurt.

She swallows the spit pooling in her mouth, feels her muscles tense into hard rocks in anticipation. “Nothing.”

 _Snap_.

Scream. 

Rinse and repeat.

...

Hopkins comes every morning. He must be a busy man, that he can only spare them a brief visit before getting on with his day. 

Perhaps it's not every morning. Perhaps he comes more often, or perhaps less often. "Good morning," he says, every time, but he is a liar.

He's said it four times, maybe three. Maybe eight. It’s hard to keep track of things.

They aren't dead. There's been no food, but sometimes a guard gives her water instead of pain. 

Still, there will always be another visit, more pain. It's not always a finger, sometimes they use a knife, or just their fists. It all hurts, and they ask her questions, and sometimes she tells them things, but they're never happy with the answers.

She tells them what she knows, to make the pain stop. Petrus, too. The problem is, they always have more questions. 

She doesn't always know the answers. 

"Good morning!" Hopkins says. He sounds - there's a strain in his voice today. 

There is an answering fear growing in her. They are an easy target for stress.

The guards stand behind him. Sometimes he tells the guards how to hurt them, sometimes he does it himself.

"How did you stop the malichor in Constantin?" he asks.

Yes, they want to hurt her today.

She sobs, frustrated. "I don't _know_! I've told you what I know, I'll tell you anything I know! _I don't know_! Constantin and Catasach performed a ritual!"

He sighs. "That's just not good enough, Justine. I need answers."

"I don't have any!" she yells. 

"Hurt her," he says. A guard steps forward and slaps her. After everything, it's more of a shock than a pain. Her lip has split again, her ears are ringing, but compared to the pain the rest of her body is in, it barely registers. 

"Petrus, anything to add?" Almost immediately, before he gets an answer, he turns to a guard. "Hurt him.

"I am getting _bored_ of the lack of _answers_. Now, I want you to think _very hard_ about what you 'don't know,' and I want a fucking _answer_ when I come back, understand?"

He gestures to the guards, and one opens the door.

She doesn't breathe a sigh of relief, not yet, but she closes her eyes in anticipation of a moment of rest.

"Oh dear, I almost forgot! This won't take but a moment." He turns away from the door, to Vasco.

"Three prisoners!" he says, "How very rude of me, we never speak to you, do we?”

"Well?" he asks, taking the small step forward to bring him within range of Vasco, "What can you tell me about Constantin?"

His hands come up, move between their bodies where she can't see them. She can see Vasco's face, though, his poor ruined face, and she sees the way it twists up in pain as the bastard does _something_ to him.

"Perhaps," Hopkins says, and his voice is almost breathy, quick panting breaths that make her anxious, make her start pulling at her chains, "Perhaps that's too difficult for you. I've heard you sea dogs can get a bit stupid, between the rum and the sun baking your brains. Shall I use smaller words? Smaller sentences? Where? Is? Con. Stan. Tin?"

His arm moves back and then forward with each consonant of Constantin's name, quick stabbing motions that Vasco makes awful noises at, that make her groan in understanding.

"Nothing?" he pants. "You're worthless to me if you can't speak, pirate." His arm moves back and then forward in a quick, hard jab, and then he braces his other arm on Vasco's shoulder as he pulls _up_ -

Vasco makes a loud, garbled noise, opens his mouth wide as blood spews out, his eyes open wide, too, and then the chains are clattering as his body trembles and jumps for a long, long moment, before he slumps down, unconscious.

She's yelling, calling him a bastard, threatening him and screaming, and she can hear Petrus doing the same.

Hopkins turns to her and all of her noise crawls into her throat and sits, thick and choking. His face is red, his hands all red with blood. His robe hangs to him slick with blood. His teeth are white, so white in all that blood.

"You are no use to me if you will not talk, Justine.

"Get rid of this," he says to the guards, dismissing her and Petrus. "And I mean properly, don't just dump it where some nosy fool can stumble on it. Burn it, dispose of anything that could identify it as a Naut."

The door opens and closes as he leaves. 

One guard stoops down and grabs Vasco by the feet as the other unlocks the cuffs around his wrists, grabbing his arms as he falls towards the ground. The one by his feet curses as Vasco's guts begin to slither out of the slit running up his belly, and he hurriedly tries to stuff them back in.

They bang on the door and it opens, they troop through and it closes. She can hear the door being locked, the bookcase being shouldered back into place. 

She stares at the place where Vasco used to hang, and the thick pool of blood quickly moving towards her toes. If it touches her, she will scream. 

Eventually, her ears stop buzzing and the puddle starts congealing and she tunes back in to Petrus, who has apparently been speaking. 

"- to me, Justine? Just listen to my voice, please look at me. I need you to look at me."

Father Petrus, always so controlled. There is a marked strain in his voice now. That's enough to make her look, curious. 

"Good, good girl," he says when she meets his eyes. He looks a little frazzled, she thinks with a giggle. 

She probably looks a little frazzled, too. She only lets her hair down when she's sleeping, because otherwise it gets snagged on everything and snaps off and she ends up with a crazed halo of uneven hair frizzed up by humidity and slicked down by mud and rain. It's probably a mess. 

If only they'd let her braid up her hair, pull on her clothes. It's very cold in just her night dress.

" _Justine!_ " Petrus snaps.

She jerks her gaze back to his. "You need to stay with me! I realize this is all - it's very bad, but I need you to stay with me! Do _not_ think about it until we get out of here, understand?"

The longer she meets his eyes, the worse she feels, like her body is coming back to her attention. Her hands are tingling, and her wrists _ache_ against the manacles. 

He's right, though. She can think about - what happened - later, if - _when_ \- they're safe at home.

...

The door bangs open and she's thrown out of fitful sleep as it ricochets off of the wall, barely stopped in it's rebound by the armored guard leading the way in. 

Nothing new, as far as wake-ups go, but the manic look on Hopkins' face starts up a queasy turn in her stomach.

As he comes closer, she registers that she's trembling with rage or pain, maybe even with cold, her nightgown soaked with sweat and blood and piss and the air chill and unmoving. She feels nauseated, almost like the first few days at sea when she was miserable and stuck in her cabin. She feels like she's moving, almost like the wall is lurching like a ship in a storm - she must have a fever, infection from her wounds. She must be in shock. _Vasco is dead_.

"Bad news, I'm afraid," Hopkins says, and she pulls her attention back to him. "Circumstances have changed, we've had to move up the executions."

Her gaze jerks up to meet his cold, dead eyes. Not as dead as usual, though. He looks...almost apprehensive? It's difficult to read emotions on a face as alien as his, but it's obvious enough that he's not exactly pleased to be losing his playthings. Mother Cardinal must have given the order, bored or disgusted with the inefficiency of his methods.

"Get him prepared," Hopkins says, gesturing at Petrus. "Quickly, now!"

She looks over his shoulder, desperate to see Petrus one last time, if this is truly it. Petrus is staring back at her, panicked and breathing hard, but doing his best to stay above it, wincing and yelling as he's dropped to the floor.

He manages to raise his head above the soldiers for a moment as they pull him upright. "My child -" He cuts off when to stare out the door when a distant boom of thunder startles him, and before he can say anything more, they've dragged him out and away.

Hopkins moves in close, so that he fills her field of view. "Don't worry, you'll see him in a moment. No point in building a pyre twice when once will do."

Her breath catches in her throat and her body jerks in fear. _The flames._

Hopkins is staring. She jerks away in disgust and he reaches out a hand and tangles it in the hair close to her scalp to make sure her eyes stay on his, as though he can drink the pain and horror from her face. "Those heretics who repent are said to gain Saint Matheus’ mercy and suffocate from the smoke, rather than bear the cleansing flame. Would you care to repent, whore?"

It's foolish, so foolish, but she can't give him the satisfaction. How much worse can it get, she's going to be burned alive within the hour. She licks her lips to gather the dried blood, lets the avid way he watches her tongue fuel her rage enough to carry through spitting in his face, baring her teeth in a snarl when he slams her head back into the stone wall.

More soldiers are at the door. He turns when he hears the clank and creak of their armor. "Get over here, quickly. We must get her down there before -" 

He cuts himself off, and turns back to her angrily. Despite herself, she feels a flare of hope. Before? _Her friends_. Someone talked, a merchant, a farmer, _someone talked_.

"Don't get optimistic," Hopkins growls. He yanks his hand out of her hair, pulling strands out by the root as he goes. It's a small pain after everything else, but the sting still makes her hiss. 

Two guards unlock her manacles, and she collapses to the floor, her legs limp, the joints of her arms aching enough to make her scream as they're allowed out of their upraised position. Any idea of a dashing escape stays there on the floor with Vasco's congealed blood as she's hauled out of the cell. 

The light in the room outside is strange, grey and flickering, and she's confused until a flash of lightning shocks through with a burst of white light. There's a crack of thunder a moment later, and she remembers, there's a storm. 

Maybe Hopkins just wants them down there before the rain puts out the flames. She chokes down a sob of sudden despair at the thought that no one has come for them, that no one even _knows_ , that she'll just disappear into the ground in a pauper's grave. 

Time feels strange, her body feels strange, she still can't move her arms without agony, though her legs have woken up enough that she can brace her legs against the floor and walls and kick out at the men taking her to her death. The one on the left huffs an impatient noise as she tries to hook a leg around a bannister and cuffs her across the face. It's painful enough to stun her, and without any resistance they're soon at the door, one soldier muscling it open against the winds trying to brace it closed.

And then they're outside, in the San Matheus marketplace that doubles as a stage for public executions.

The storm is here, the worst storm she's yet to see on Teer Fradee. The worst storm she'll _ever_ see on Teer Fradee, ever see _anywhere_. She stares up at the dark clouds, flashes of lightning illuminating the black and roiling heavens, wind whipping her loose and filthy hair about her face and her matted nightdress around her legs.

The soldiers start forward and she staggers with them, finally looking away from the sky and to the raised platform in the center of the square. Through the wind and the crazed light and her hair, she can barely make out the dark shape of the pyre, the two stakes pointed to the heavens..

More prominent is the bonfire set behind, the shadowy forms of men throwing more wood on to ensure the wind doesn't put it out. 

There's a crowd around the front, but as the soldiers push through, she can't find a sympathetic face, nor one she recognizes, and her breathing begins to pick up speed. 

By the time they've reached the short flight of stairs up to the platform, she's given up on the crowd and instead stares at the stakes.

Petrus is already tied to the one closest to the stairs, and through her hair she meets his frantic gaze. His eyes are wide and his face strained, and he tries to shout something that's immediately whipped away by the wind. "Petrus!" she yells, but even as it leaves her throat, she can tell it's useless. Nothing can be heard through this storm, they'll die without even a kind or loving word from each other.

She's forced up onto the pyre, stumbling over the loose pieces of wood, shoved into the empty stake as her arms are wrenched behind her so they can tie her in place, agonizing on her broken fingers.

The soldiers finish quickly and leap down, leaving her and Petrus alone. Her breathing is frantic now, so fast she's starting to feel lightheaded. She tries wiggling her fingers, but her hands are tied tightly enough that she can feel her fingers going numb, almost a blessing.

For a moment there's nothing, and she hyperventilates quietly, staring at the glimpses of impassive faces she catches through her hair, before there's movement from the left. 

A procession is heading up the stairs, standing on the platform in front of their pyre. This must be the part where the city leaders sermonize and condemn the doomed. 

Unfortunately, over the winds, nothing can be heard, and she feels a mean satisfaction that she won't have to listen to it. 

Sure enough, after a few ineffectual moments, they apparently agree and there's a quick moment of communication where they bunch together and presumably shout in each other's ears as they decide to move on. 

Even through the wind and her hair, she can recognize Hopkins' gold-embroidered sleeve as he gestures expansively to the bonfire behind. The others turn to look, and she meets the Mother Cardinal’s eyes for a moment before the woman looks away and nods to Hopkins. 

They confer with a soldier, who hops down and heads around to the back of the platform. To the bonfire.

Meanwhile, the higher-ups head down the steps and trail around to the front. _Best seats in the house._

She refuses to look at them any more, instead turns to Petrus. He's staring away from her, watching the progress of a group of soldiers up the stairs and towards him.

For a moment she can't figure out what's going on, then the first two split off and she sees the men in the center, carrying burning torches. The wind whips at them immediately, and one goes out before a soldier steps back in front, trying to shield them from the wind. 

A soldier peels off from the group and leaps up onto the platform, carrying a silver ewer. He pauses for a moment, then splashes it onto Petrus, who sputters and spits, then turns back to his companions and trades it for a fresh ewer before picking his careful way to her.

He's close enough that she can barely catch what he yells before he splashes her as well. _May the Blessed oil of Saint Matheu speed your way to Salvation._

The oil is cold and slick, and after a moment of snorting it from her nose, she recognizes the smell of whale oil beneath the myrrh and incense, used for lamps and highly flammable. She can taste it on her lips when she whimpers.

When she looks back, the soldiers are holding torches to the bottom of the pyre. Despite the wind's best efforts, they eventually catch, and the soldiers let out a cheer she can almost hear, and abandon the platform to watch them burn.

The wood must have been treated in some way, for the fire, once it starts, spreads like it's hungry for them. 

The wind seems to pick up, yanking her hair to the left until she turns her head that way, and then it obscures her vision almost entirely.

The flames follow where the wind leads, and there's a _whoosh_ as they begin rapidly eating their way up to Petrus. 

It's difficult, but she stares through her hair to look at Petrus, feeling frantic. Brave man, he's already looking to her, and she sees him mouth something to her, his expression so complicated she cannot decipher it, something like sadness and resignation and love.

He stares at her until the flames reach him, and then he screams his agony to the sky as the fire rushes up his body, spurred on by the oil until he's ablaze, a halo of red and white and yellow flame engulfing him and turning him pink and crackled red and finally, black ash that floats up to the clouds.

She can feel the heat licking at her toes, and when she looks down, the flames are teasing at her feet. The wind is still putting up a fight, but that may make it all the more agonizing, a slow burning before the fire reaches the oil soaked into her nightdress and sets her alight. 

Rage flashes through her veins, explodes up in her throat to choke her until she has to look up into the sky and scream. By the end, her throat burns nearly as badly as her feet, from the sound, from the pain she's lived through, maybe from the ashes and greasy smoke that are what remain of her friend. 

There's a moment before a sizzle of lightning lances through the air to strike the platform in front of her, then another, and another, strike after strike until the square is flickering the blue-grey darkness of a storm and flashes of dizzying light that make shadows wobble and lengthen crazily until she can't tell if the crowd is running or standing still.

From the clouds comes a final fork of lightning, crackling through the sky to strike at Petrus' stake, blinding bright so that she closes her eyes even as the after-image lights the inside of her eyelids a brilliant white.

When she opens them, the stake is splintered, flashes of glowing blue-white embers burning inside the broken wood, Petrus' body stuck fast and blackened.

Like an answer to her scream, a boom of thunder cracks through the square, louder than the others, deafening like an avalanche, an earthquake, like nothing she's ever heard before. 

Her mouth opens in shock, her ears pop, the very ground seems to rumble and shake in the aftermath.

There's a trickle on her cheek, a drop from above, one, two more before the skies suddenly release and a deluge of rainwater sluices the oil from her body and begins smothering the flames creeping agonizingly up her feet.

Through the veil of the rain, she can see the crowd, restless and shouting now that the weather has turned to harmless rain and ruined their day of pleasure. They expected two executions today and are no doubt baying for her blood.

 _What next_ , she wonders. Putting her to the sword would make the most sense, or a knife to the throat while she stands here, helpless. Perhaps not as theatrical, not as entertaining for the masses, but dead is dead.

She doesn't want to look at them anymore. _Animals,_ she thinks with disgust, with a pure hatred she's never felt before. She remembers the way Siora had poured her rage into the earth when confronted with her mother's killer, begging for mercy. What strength it must have taken to allow Justine to stop her from strangling him, from hurting him as much as she'd wanted. 

She wants this entire town dead, wiped off the map. She knows now that she does not have Siora's strength. 

She lifts her head and lets the rain drip down her face. It feels surprisingly warm, and gentle for being strong enough to cleanse the oil from her body. 

She opens her mouth and drinks down the rain - it soothes her sore throat and feels so good on her cracked lips, she's never tasted water so delicious and pure.

When she opens her eyes, it looks like there's a man in the clouds. She blinks the rainwater out of her eyes, shakes her head a little to clear the wet hair from her face, but he's still there, coming closer now.

There's a distant flash of lightning, and in the brief moment he's back-lit, his silhouette has wings and a crown. _King Vinbarr?_ Perhaps it's harder to kill a king on Teer Fradee.

She thinks the crowd has also noticed; it's difficult to pull her eyes away, but when she takes a quick look, there are fingers pointed to the sky.

He's closer now, and coming fast - before she knows it he's landed on the platform in front of her.

The crowd makes a sound of surprise and fear, as he looks at them, loud enough that she can hear it over the rain.

The veil of the rain is lessening now that he's here, enough that she thinks his hair looks too pale to be Vinbarr's, that she starts to wonder -

He pulls a knife free from a strap on his leg and turns and - 

"Constantin?" she breathes, feeling lightheaded and like she's going to cry, though whether from relief or despair, she cannot tell.

Not a crown, as she'd thought - or perhaps, not a crown in the sense that she's used to - but branches, growing from his ash blonde hair. The malichor scars on his face are still there, but green now, creeping like soft moss across his cheeks.

His eyes flicker strangely as he moves to her, luminescent like an animal's in the night, and she cannot look away until he steps around her.

There's increased tension on her hands as he must slip the knife under the rope and starts sawing, and she groans as it puts pressure on her poor fingers.

He must lean forward, she can feel a warm breath on her ear. "Dear cousin, I was terrified I would not get to you in time.”

There are too many questions crowding her mouth, but now is not the time. She eyes the way the crowd and the soldiers have begun to gather their bravery. "How?" she manages.

"I am the master of this island now, dearest. The birds and bugs and even the wind whispered to me when I asked for you."

"Ah," she mouths. Not just king then, it sounds like. 

"There we are! You're free, cousin." A stronger tension for a moment as she strains, and then the frayed rope gives entirely and she pulls her arms forward with profound relief. 

Constantin steps back around. The reemergence of this fearsome creature staring at them stalls the crowd for another moment, and he turns back to her.

He offers his hand and she gratefully takes it, careful of her fingers, allowing him to help her off of the crumbling and soggy pyre and onto the platform. He watches her carefully the whole time, not letting her stumble when her legs weaken or her footing shifts.

Once there, he lifts his other hand and pushes her sodden hair out of her face, cups her face with a gentle hand and touches a finger to her split and re-split lip.

It is so nice to be touched tenderly, by someone she loves, she wants to collapse into him, but instead she sighs and closes her eyes, lets him hold her hand and her face.

"Dearest," he says, and it sounds like _beloved_. 

She opens her eyes to meet his strange new gaze. Her oldest friend, her childhood co-conspirator, her kind cousin, always underestimated and underutilized by his father. She'd always known, get him away from the Count and the weight of his impossible expectations, and Constantin would do great things. 

"Join me," he offers. "Together, we can build something new here, something _unique_.

"We can be it's new gods, cousin. It is my gift to you. Bind yourself to me. _Trust me._ " She can see the uncertainty in his face, even after all this, that he's not good enough, that no one will ever choose him. Like she's ever done anything else, ever chosen anyone above him. 

"Of course," she says.

He stares at her, disbelieving for a moment before he breaks into a brilliant smile. He releases her, and she's surprised by the pain of the loss.

But it's just for a moment, as he pulls his knife out again, and then he takes her hand. "Just a small cut," he says, placing the knife in her free hand. "And then you need never feel pain again."

He turns her hand over so it rests palm up in his own, nods to the knife. With a bracing breath, she draws a quick line against her palm, hissing at the pain.

Constantin pulls her in close, and she buries her face in his shoulder, shudders and feels the tension finally leave her as he places a soft hand against her skull. "I will never let anyone hurt you again, dearest," he murmurs, and then her body is filled with light and smoke.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to get all the names and titles right, but Greedfall wikis are VERY lacking, so I did my best with Googling and whatever notes I took while playing LOOOOL NERD. 
> 
> Much of Constantin's lines are direct or close-to from the end of the game.
> 
> You don't really get much of the belief system (if any???) of the Congregation, but since Theleme seems to be analogous to Puritan-era England (????), I figure I'm safe with some Christian-based references like angels and salvation and stuff. And yeah, since Inquisitor Aloysius is killed in-game, my OC is of course named after the infamous Witchfinder General Matthew Hopkins. De Sardet is named for the Marquis de Sade's poor tortured heroine, Justine. PRETENTIOUS. :D


End file.
